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“Can you let me see it?” Father Paul asked. “My, my, what a very nice, big one.”
Luther stood shyly at the church door at the end of mass while Father Paul took the picture the young man had been drawing during his homily from his hand and examined it with an interest that didn’t seem too feigned. Luther had trouble sitting through the church service. He always had. Since his mother brought him here as a child, she’d given him one of the children’s activity packets the church provided to hold his attention through the mass. Working with that while the service went on around him always kept him quiet and content. He’d gotten older, but he hadn’t stopped entertaining himself with the packets.
“A secretary desk. And drawn with such precision,” Father Paul said. “I can see that you are making good use of your training in furniture design.”
This was said with some genuine admiration. Father Paul was, indeed, impressed with Luther’s drawing talent. Luther stood before him, the two still in a handshake, while the line of parishioners waiting to greet and rush home to their lunches built up behind them. Thank God this child of limited means has found a true talent provided by thee, the priest intoned in his mind.
And then in added prayer in his thoughts that he hoped God was too busy to hear, Father Paul also said a little prayer of thanks that Luther had been too dim to fully understand some liberties the priest had taken with him earlier in life. Well, somewhat more than “some,” he admitted to himself.
“But the tall brown tower next to the desk. I don’t quite understand how that fits in.”
“Umm, don’t know father. I dream some when I draw. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“That’s fine, Luther. But it looks so out of place with that nicely drawn desk. Why don’t you take some scissors when you get home and divide the drawings—and if you didn’t want the tower one, you could give it to me and I will throw it away for you.”
The priest knew full well what Luther had drawn in his daydreaming and what its reference point was. And it was making him feel hot and was stirring both memories and something more physically demanding in his body. It was a time to be glad that priests wore robes.
Giving Luther an affectionate pat on the shoulder, he propelled the young man on down the church steps and turned to the next parishioner in line and widened his smile. He was worried about Luther and what was in his future—and, perhaps, a bit, what he might someday say about his past. But Father Paul would think more on that later.
Luther gave a little smile of his own and started out across the church’s lawn for the walk home. He might divide the picture, but he liked both. He’d keep them both.
When he looked up, he saw that Mrs. Sims was standing on the walk and looking at him. She seemed to be waiting for him. She was the Mrs. Sims of the Mr. Sims, who had been Luther’s gym teacher and who now was one of his special friends. Luther liked Mrs. Sims better than he liked Mr. Sims, although he liked both just fine. She had been his teacher too. She had been his English teacher and she had spent extra time with him without being asked and had always been especially nice to him. She was in church alone, without Mr. Sims, today. That wasn’t unusual. Mr. Sims always said he’d rather stay home and open his veins with a butter knife then walk into a church—and their wedding day may have been the last time he’d done so—walked into a church, that is.
As Luther approached Mrs. Sims, something in the back of his brain told him he should be apprehensive about something, but he couldn’t grasp what that might be. She was giving him a big smile, so he knew it couldn’t be anything very serious.
“There you are, Luther. I’ve been waiting to talk to you. I see that you were showing Father Paul a picture you drew in church. May I see it, please?”
“Sure.” Luther handed the drawing to her.
“This is a very, very nice, drawing, Luther,” Mrs. Sims said after inspecting it. There was a little catch in her voice when she said it, though. And Luther didn’t notice that she didn’t look into his face when she said that. He blushed in appreciation and whispered a “Thank you.” He didn’t notice that she looked a bit flushed too.
“It’s so nice that I’d like to have it, if you are giving it away,” she said.
“Well, sure, if you want it.” Luther hadn’t been planning to give it away. He had meant to try crafting that secretary. But the image of the design was in his mind—he was good at holding images in his brain. He guessed he could draw that again without any problem. Maybe that would be what he’d do right now when he got home.
“What I stopped you for, though, Luther, is that, if you’d like to earn a little extra money, I have some heavy-lifting, and reaching-up jobs in the house I need some young, strapping man like you to do for me. Do you think you’d be interested?”
“Yeah, sure,” Luther answered. Mrs. Sims had always been very nice to him. He didn’t mind one bit being nice back. And dikmen escort he wasn’t paying full attention to her anyway. He was changing some trim work on the secretary in his mind.
“Some day this week between 3:30 and 5:00 in the afternoon, maybe? I’ll be home from school and Mr. Sims will still be at intramural practice. He doesn’t like for there to be fussing around in the house while he’s there.”
“Yeah, sure,” Luther answered.
“You’ll remember now, won’t you?”
“So, you’ll come by when?”
“Sometime this week.”
“Between what times?”
“Between 3:30 and 5:00. In the afternoon. Can you repeat that for me?”
“Yeah sure. Between 3:30 and, ummm—”
“And 5:00.” Mrs. Sims repeated patiently. “In the afternoon.” She’d always been patient with Luther. That’s why he liked her so much.
“And 5:00,” he said. “Yeah, sure. I’ll come. Now I gotta go to the store. Tim and Alfred, they want me at the store this afternoon. I gotta go help them.”
Luther was beaming so wide at remembering just now that he was headed to the store rather than home and at the prospect of being needed to help at the store that Mrs. Sims nearly teared up. What are we going to do with you, you dear, dear, manchild? Mrs. Sims thought, as she watched Luther turn and start humming as he walked toward Decatur Street, near the beach. She looked at the picture Luther had drawn again, folded it, put it in her purse, and snapped the clasp of the purse tightly shut.
* * * *
It wasn’t exactly a crash, but it had the effect of bringing both Tim and Alfred posthaste into the room.
“What the hell?” Alfred exclaimed. “What are you doing in this room, Luther?”
Alfred was the little, frenetic one, always bouncing around and nervous about this and that. He also was the one who knew what to buy from an estate sale and for how much—and had a very good idea who he could unload it on at twice the price.
“You told me to turn the lamps on so the customers would see the lights on. I did that in the dining table room. And then that room was all lit up and this one was too dark and so I . . .”
“Didn’t I tell you never, ever to come into the crystal room?” Alfred exclaimed. Nearly every time Alfred opened his mouth, he was exclaiming.
“Now don’t fret, dear,” the just-arrived Tim said. He was the hippy one, the tall, thin one, with the long hair he kept tied back in a pony tail but down on his shoulders at home. The one who moved like he was a dancer and who fluttered with his hands. He also was the one who kept the Pink Poodle afloat with his accounting abilities and his skill with reining Alfred in on the grandiose schemes and monster purchases.
“No harm was done, was it Luther?” Tim continued “That’s the lamp we heard, wasn’t it? It isn’t broken. The shade’s just a little bent. You can set it back up now.”
“I told you never—” Alfred was still fuming. It caused Luther’s hand to start to shake. He didn’t like being yelled out. And just for doing what he’d been told to do. He’d been told to turn the lamps on. This lamp wasn’t turned on. He was just doing what he’d been told to do.
“Shush, baby, you’re going to make him drop it again. It’s OK, Luther, set the lamp up. Yes, like that. Now there are some boxes in the attic, by the stairs. Could you bring them down to the workroom here, please? And do be careful with them. There’s some chinaware in the boxes.”
When Luther got to the workroom with the boxes, Tim was waiting for him. “Thank you, Luther. Place that on this table—gently please. And thank you for your help today. You can go on home now.”
“But I only got—”
“That’s fine, my boy. You’ve helped a lot and there’s really nothing else we need you to do at the shop today. You can go home and work on that table you like.”
“You mean it? You like me working on that table?”
“But, of course. Run along now. You’re on your own for dinner tonight. Alfred and I have dinner and a play to go to.”
As Luther was leaving by the side entrance, Tim and Alfred were talking in the front hall. He wasn’t really listening to them, though.
“What are we going to do?” Alfred was grousing. “He’ll smash all of our profit. Why do we keep him on?”
“Shush, shush, baby. He hasn’t broken much—really, not much—yet. And you know why we keep him on.”
Luther also was grousing a bit as he walked over to Ocean Street and then up to Washington for the long walk home. He was mumbling to himself about schedules and having working at the store done for this afternoon. He’d only turned on the lamps in two rooms. There were four other rooms. He’d been told to turn the lamps on. Tim had told him to turn the lamps on and Luther didn’t want Tim thinking he didn’t do a good job of what he was asked to do.
Luther didn’t like disruptions in his schedule—except if something came up that was fun. That made him think about what Tim had said about the table just now. Tim had said it was fine for him to emek escort work out on the fuck fuck table. Luther had been finding that the fuck fuck had been making his body stronger. And it sure was fun. And Tim had said it was fine to do.
He heard the hail, “Hey there, Luther,” and looked up and smiled.
Keith was walking in his direction, down Ocean toward the beach. He was wearing a Speedo and flip-flops and had on a white terry-cloth jacket with a big red cross on it.
“Hi, yourself, Keith.” Luther smiled broadly, because every time he saw Keith he thought of fuck fuck friends. And Keith really looked good.
“Where you goin’ on a Sunday afternoon, sport?”
Luther liked the names Keith called him. They weren’t like the names the other guys called him. They were friendly and sometimes they made him feel funny below. Like when they were alone and Keith called him “Stud” or “Horse” or even “Monster” or “Black Superdaddy.” Luther wasn’t sure of those names at first, but he liked to hear them once Keith had told him what he meant by those.
“Home,” Luther said somewhat petulantly. “They don’t need me at the store this afternoon. So, I’m going home. Don’t know what I’ll do there, though. I was going to work at the store all afternoon.”
“You could come with me. I’m on duty this evening over at Cape May Point beach. But I came down here early just to horse around on the main beach. I’m a lifeguard. Didn’t I tell you that? It helps with the school bills.”
“Horse around?” Luther asked, his brown knitted. “You mean fuck fuck with you on the beach?” Luther had just been thinking of one of the names Keith used for him when they were fucking.
“Sometime, yes,” he said, with a laugh. “But not today.” But then his face turned into a broad grin. “Yes, fucking this afternoon is a great idea, Luther. You want me to come home with you and climb up on the table?”
* * * *
“Oh, FUCKKK!” Keith was crying out. They were both on the fuck fuck table, Luther sitting back on his heels, his knees up under Keith’s belly, with Keith’s ass high on his lap and Keith’s toes dug into the table top on either side and behind Luther’s hips. Luther’s monster cock was fully encased. He had Keith’s wrists trapped in his fists; Keith’s torso was arched back like an archery bow, and he was crying out his pleasure to the ceiling of the work room, as Luther rocked his channel back and forth on the deeply buried cock. “You’re a stud. Give it to me. Faster on your Black Superdaddy club. Oh yes, fuck me!”
“Luther? Luther? You here, guy? Tim told me you’d be here.”
Upon hearing the voice call him from the driveway, Luther released Keith’s wrists and Keith fell forward and moaned deeply.
“That’s Mr. Sims. He’s here to give me a new harmonica,” Luther said. “You’ll have to hide. He wants to fuck fuck. Tim said it’s OK, but I don’t know about two.”
“It’s OK,” Keith said wearily. “I’ll hide. I know where.” And then, while Luther was headed toward the door, Keith muttered, “For christ sake, at least put on your shorts.”
Luther blushed and reached down for his shorts. Keith laughed, gathered up his clothes, and, when Luther turned to go to the door, he slipped through the back door and into Luther’s room.
“It’s a nice harmonica. Thanks, Mr. Sims. You want to see the chairs? I’m working on the second one now.”
“Yes, please, Luther.” And as he looked over the chair, he murmured, “Very nice, Luther. But you know I came for more than the chairs, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Sims.” Luther looked down at the floor shyly. He was standing next to the fuck fuck table and he let his knuckles rub on the surface. He was glad that Tim had let him know it was OK to use the table. He’d been a little worried about that, even with what his friend, Keith, had told him.
“Gawd, Luther, it looks like you’re hard. Look at how it’s sticking out. Are you hard for me, son?”
“Maybe,” Luther whispered. He thought it would be a bit too complicated to explain the hiding Keith, wherever he was hiding.
“Shit, I can’t wait. Hard for me. Hop up on the table, son.”
Luther sat up on the side of the fuck fuck table. Mr. Sims slipped off his T-shirt and shorts and briefs on his way to slipping Luther’s shorts off, gasping at the size of the cock that came out of them, and spreading the young man’s legs and coming in close between them. He grasped both his and Luther’s cocks together, but he couldn’t get his hand all the way around them. He began to gently stroke them together.
“Anyone ever done this with you before?” he asked. He didn’t give Luther a chance to answer, though, as his other hand had pulled around to the back of Luther’s neck and brought their faces together in a kiss.
Luther wasn’t sure about the kissing, but it felt sort of good, and Mr. Sims seemed to be liking it.
After the kiss, Sims was hunched over him, still stroking their cocks together. Luther was staring at the man’s nipples. They were large and puffed up.
“You want me to eryaman escort suck your tits, Mr. Sims? My friend . . .” Opps, he’d almost given a name. He didn’t know if Keith would like that “. . . my friend likes me to suck his tits. He has a silver ring in one. That’s my favorite—my favorite of his tits. He’s got two, just like me . . . and just like you too.”
“Yes, Luther,” Sims said, in a hoarse voice, “I’d like you to suck my tits. Then I’ll suck yours.”
Sims licked his way down Luther’s torso and Luther gave a little lurch and a moan as Sims’s mouth came down over his cock.
The older man looked up. He was smiling. He placed the palm of a hand on Luther’s chest and pressed. “Lay back now, Luther. I’ll bet no one has given you head. Not this good.”
Then he proceeded to do so. Luther had, in fact been given head before. Very nice head. But Mr. Sims hadn’t actually put it in the form of a question, so Luther didn’t answer. He did moan and groan, though, because this was very nice head indeed.
“Oh, gawd, you are such a horse. Oh, fuck, I gotta get this inside me.”
That’s what Keith had said, Luther thought, that he was a horse. So, maybe he really was a horse. Maybe he could canter home from the antique shop tomorrow. He almost chuckled out loud at his own joke. But he was thinking something else now. Waves and waves of pleasure were flowing over him and he felt pressure inside.
“Uh, Mr. Sims. I think I got some of that white pee pee comin’. Maybe you don’t want to get wet.”
“No, you can’t come yet,” Sims said in a thick voice. “Here, we lay here, not moving, for a couple of minutes. Let me know when the feeling is gone. Then, do you remember when I had you and the other guys do pushups back at school?”
“Yeah. That was sort of fun. I could do a lot more than anyone else.”
“You sure could. You think you still could do a hundred of them?”
* * * *
“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.” Luther was gleefully keeping count.
Sims was on his belly on the fuck fuck table, stretched out, his rump slightly elevated to give Luther a good angle for deep stroking. Luther was doing pushups on top of him, the heel of his hands next to Sims’s shoulders, his toes pressed into the table top just outside Sims’s pulled-in ankles. Sims was getting it big in a constricted channel, and he was groaning and moaning the heavenly stuffing he was getting.
“Forty-one. You OK, Mr. Sims? Forty-twoandthree,” Luther murmured with a bit of concern. “I’m . . . forty-five . . . not hurting you, am I? Forty-sixsevenand eight.”
“Yes, I’m OK,” Sims answered between groans. “Yes, you’re hurting me. You’re hurting me to heaven. Oh shit, it hurts good.”
When Mr. Sims left, talking about that nice tin whistle he had to bring to Luther the next time, Luther remembered—if a bit belatedly—to look around the workshop for where Keith was hiding. He probably had gotten bored and left, Luther thought. He picked up his shorts and T and headed for the door to his room.
“Keith!” he said when he entered the room and saw Keith, still naked, legs spread, dick in his hand, and laying on his back in Luther’s bed. “You know—”
“Oh, the fuck fuck table is just where you are supposed to start making friends, Luther. I’m sure Tim told you that. Maybe you just don’t remember? Special friends can come in here.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“You got me all hot and bothered, Luther. You invited me here for fuck fuck. And then that other guy came along. I have waited patiently. What kind of host are you going to be for a special friend?”
* * * *
“Oh, jessssus, ride me, Stud!”
Luther had his knees up under the small of Keith’s back this time, with Keith’s ankles locked behind Luther’s neck and his hands running through the hair on the back of Luther’s head, holding Luther’s mouth to his nipples.
Luther was releasing the suck frequently to cry out a gleeful “Bounce, bounce, squeak.”
He was mimicking the sounds of the rocking bed as it creaked and groaned and squeaked its own objections and moved across the floor under the strength of the power driving Keith had begged for.
“Me too, me too,” Keith panted as he was flung around like a rag doll between Luther’s pounding cock and the rocking, giving bed.
“I’m gonna do it. Here it . . .!”
“. . . Comes!” Keith cried out. “Me too. Fuckkk!”
They lay there, cooling down, holding in place except for Luther’s licking and sucking lips on Keith’s nipples.
“Nice,” Luther murmured. “I like the one with the silver ring the best.”
“You like rings?”
“Yeah. They make me feel funny. Good funny.”
“Yes, I can feel that. You want to fuck me again, don’t you? You get hard again fast.”
“I’m sorry, Keith,” Luther whispered.
“Oh, shit, don’t be sorry. It’s what I want too. And you know what else would be nice?”
“You could have a ring too. A big one. And not in the nipple. In the head of your cock. You would be the best then. A barbarian.”
“The best? A barbarian would be good?”
“The best. It arouses—turns you on—doesn’t it? The thought of a big ole metal ring in your cock head. Punishing men deep inside with that. Making them moan for it. I can feel that you’d like that.”
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